Chapter XXV
In February I was sitting in our workshop with Köster for the last time. We had had to sell it, and now were waiting for the auctioneer who was to put up for sale the fittings and the taxicab. Köster had prospects of a job in the spring as racing motorist with a small firm of car manufacturers. I was staying on at the International, and meant to try to get some additional work during the day in order to earn a bit more.
A few people gradually assembled in the yard. The auctioneer came. "Are you going out, Otto?" I asked.
"What for? It's all out there, and he knows his business."
Köster looked tired. You could not easily tell with him, but if you knew him well, you could see. His face looked even more tense and hard than usual. Night after night he had been out, always in the same neighbourhood. He had long since found out the name of the fellow who had shot Gottfried. But he couldn't find him, because the other, for fear of the police, had changed his quarters and was in hiding somewhere. Alfons had dug all that out. He was waiting likewise. It was quite possible that the other chap was not in the city any longer. That Köster and Alfons were after him he did not know. They were waiting for him to come back when he would think himself safe.
"I think I'll go out and watch, Otto," said I.
"All right."
I went into the yard. Our workbenches and the rest of the stuff were piled up in the middle. On the right by the wall stood the taxi. We had washed it clean. I examined the upholstery and the tyres. "Our jolly old milch cow," Gottfried had always called it. It wasn't so easy to part with.
Some one clapped me on the shoulder. I turned round in surprise. An unpleasantly flashy young man in a belted overcoat confronted me. He blinked his eyes and twirled a bamboo cane in the air. "Hello! We know one another."
An inkling rose in my memory. "Guido Thiess of the Augeka."
"Good for you!" declared the fellow smugly. "Met over this self-same bus. A nasty piece of work you had with you then, I must say. All I could do not to land him a couple."
Involuntarily my face contracted at the thought of him landing Köster a couple. Thiess interpreted it as a smile and on his side disclosed a rather lamentable set of teeth. "Still, bygones are bygones, Guido bears no grudges. You did pay an enormous price for the old grandfather, though. Was there anything left in it for yourselves?"
"Yes," said I. "The car is good."
Theiss gave a deprecating smirk. "If you'd taken my advice you would have had more. And me too. However, bygones are bygones. Forgive and forget. But to-day we can do the trick. We'll take it up to five hundred marks, eh? There's not a soul else to bid. Agreeable?"
It dawned on me. He imagined we had passed the car on again then, and he did not realise that the workshop was ours. On the contrary he supposed we meant to buy it again.
"The car's still worth fifteen hundred," said I. "Not counting the tax."
"Exactly," declared Guido eagerly. "We go up to five hundred, I suggest. If we get it, I pay you three hundred cash on the spot."
"Can't do it," said I. "I've got a client for the car."
"In that case—" He wanted to make fresh proposals.
"It's no good." I walked across to the middle of the yard. Up to twelve hundred hie had a free hand, I knew that now.
The auctioneer began to put up the things. First the fittings. They didn't fetch much. The tools either. Then came the cab. The first offer was three hundred marks.
"Four hundred," said Guido.
"Four hundred and fifty," bid a chap in overalls after a long hesitation.
Guido went up to five hundred. The auctioneer asked around. The chap in overalls said nothing. Guido winked at me and held up four fingers. "Six hundred," said I.
Guido shook his head and went to seven hundred. I bid further. Guido followed desperately. At a thousand he made imploring gestures and indicated with his finger that I might still earn one hundred. He bid one thousand and ten.
By eleven hundred he was red and hostile, but still squeezed out eleven hundred and ten. I went to eleven hundred and ninety,'expecting from him a bid of twelve hundred. Then I meant to stop.
But Guido was now furious. It annoyed him that, according to his reading, he was being squeezed out; and he suddenly offered thirteen hundred. I calculated swiftly. If he really intended to buy, he would certainly have stopped at twelve hundred. Now he merely meant to drive me up, out of revenge. He supposed from our conversation that fifteen hundred was my limit and saw. no' danger to himself.
"Thirteen hundred and ten," said I.
"Fourteen hundred" bid Guido swiftly.
"Fourteen hundred and ten," I replied hesitantly. I was afraid I might be left hanging.
"Fourteen hundred and ninety!" Guido looked at me, triumphant and mocking. He imagined he had salted my soup good and properly.
I fixed his eye and said nothing. The auctioneer asked once, twice, then he raised the hammer. The moment the car was knocked down to Guido his expression changed from triumph to utter amazement.
Completely at a loss, he came over to me. "I thought you meant—"
"No," said I.
He recovered himself and scratched his head. "Damn. It won't be easy to persuade the firm. Thought you would go to fifteen hundred. Still—I have at least pinched the old bus from you this time."
"You were meant to," said I. Guido did not understand. Only when he saw Köster coming did it suddenly dawn on him, and he ran his fingers through his hair. "Good God, the car belonged to you? Ass, utter ass that I am! Sold. Diddled. O Guido, that this should happen to you! Caught by the old old trick. However—no use crying over spilt milk. The wiliest dog falls for the easiest bait. We'll make it up next time."
He sat down to the wheel and drove off. Our eyes followed the car, and we did not feel very happy.
In the afternoon Mathilda Stoss came. We had still to settle with her for the last month. Köster gave her the money and suggested she should apply to the new owner of the workshop for the job of charwoman. We had already installed Jupp with him. But Mathilda shook her head. "No, no, Herr Köster, I've finished. My bones are-getting too stiff."
"What do you think of doing then?" I asked.
"I'm going to my daughter. She's married in Bunzlau. D'you know Bunzlau?"
"No, Mathilda," I replied.
"But Herr Köster?"
"Me neither, Frau Stoss."
"Funny," said Mathilda, "nobody knows Bunzlau. I've asked so many people. Yet my daughter's been married there twelve years. To a clerk."
"Then there will be Bunzlau too, you may be quite sure of that, if a clerk lives there."
"What I say. But it is funny all the same that nobody knows it, eh?"
We agreed. "How is it you haven't been there all these years then?" I asked.
Mathilda smirked. "Well, there was something. But now they want me to see the children. They have four already. And little Eduard must come too."
"I believe there's very good schnapps to be had around Bunzlau," said I. "Damson or something—"
"Nothing like that," said Mathilda. "As a matter of fact that was the something. My son-in-law's a 'teetotaller,' if you please. That's people who don't drink anything."
Köster fetched the last bottle from the empty shelf. "Well, Frau Stoss, in that case we must drink a farewell schnapps together."
"I'm with you," said Mathilda.
Köster put the glasses on the table and filled them. Mathilda poured down the rum as if it were running through a sieve. Her upper lip worked-vigorously and her moustache twitched.
"One more?" I asked.
"I won't say no."
She got another big glassful, then she said good-bye.
"All the best in Bunzlau," said I.
"Yes, thanks very much. But it's funny, isn't it, nobody knows it, eh?"
She waddled out. We stood around a while longer in the workshop, "We might as well go too, I suppose," said Köster.
"Yes," I replied. "There's nothing more to do here."
We locked the door and went out. Then we fetched Karl. He was in a garage near by and had not been sold with the rest. We drove to the bank and Köster paid in the money to the Receivers. "I'm going to have a sleep now," said he. "Will you be free after?"
"I've taken the whole evening off to-day."
"Good, then I'll be along at eight."
We ate in a little pub in the country and then drove in again. As we arrived at the first streets one of the front tyres punctured. We changed the wheel. Karl hadn't been washed for a long time and I got pretty dirty. "I must just have a wash, Otto," said I.
Near by was a rather large Café. We went in and sat at a table by the entrance. To our surprise the place was almost completely full. A woman's band was playing and there was great activity; the orchestra had coloured paper caps, some of the guests were in fancy dress, paper stream^ ers flew from table to table, balloons ascended, waiters ran to and fro with trays piled high and the entire place was filled with movement, laughter and noise.
"What's on here, then?" asked Köster.
A fair girl alongside us showered us with a cloud of confetti.
"Where do you come from?" she laughed. "Don't you know it's Shrove Tuesday?"
"Ach, so," said I. "In that case I guess I'll wash my hands." I had to cross the entire room to get to the lavatory. For a while I was held up by some people who were drunk and trying to hoist a woman on to a table to make her sing. The woman resisted, shrieking; the table fell over, and with the table the whole party. I was waiting for the gangway to clear, when suddenly it was as if I had received an electric shock. I stood there stiff and rigid; the restaurant sank; the noise, the music, nothing remained, only indistinct moving shadows were there; but distinct, monstrously sharp and clear, remained one table, and at the table a young fellow with a fool's cap awry on his head, one arm about a half-tipsy girl, glassy stupid eyes, very thin lips, and under the table bright yellow, loud, highly polished leather leggings.
A waiter bumped into me. Drunkenly I moved on and stopped again. I was burning hot, yet my whole body trembled. My hands were dripping wet. And now I saw the others at the table. I heard them singing in chorus with defiant faces some song or other and beating time on the table with their beer glasses. Again someone bumped into me. "Don't block, up the passage," he growled.
I walked on mechanically, I found the lavatory, I washed my hands and only realised it when I had almost boiled the skin off. Then I went back.
"What's the matter?" asked Köster.
I could not answer. "Are you ill?" he asked.
I shook my head and looked at the table alongside where the fair girl was still eyeing us. Suddenly Köster turned pale. His eyes narrowed. He leaned forward. "Yes?" he asked quite softly.
"Yes," I replied.
"Where?"
I looked in the direction.
Slowly Köster rose. It was like a snake preparing to strike.
"Careful," I whispered. "Not here, Otto."
He made a quick movement with his hand and went slowly forward. I held myself in readiness to start after him. A woman clapped a green-red paper cap on his head and hooked on to him. She fell back without his having touched her and stared after him. He walked in a slow curve through the room and came back.
"Not there now," said he.
I stood up and surveyed the room. Köster was right. "Do you suppose he recognised me?" I asked.
Köster gave a shrug. He now noticed for the first time the cap on his head and wiped it off.
"I don't understand it," said I. "I was only a minute or two at the most in the lavatory."
"You were away over a quarter of an hour."
"What?" I looked across once more at the table. "The others have gone too. There was a girl with them, she's not there either. If he had recognised me surely he would have disappeared alone."
Köster beckoned the waiter. "Is there a second exit?"
"Yes, over there, on the other side, on Hardenbergstrasse."
Köster took a coin from his pocket and gave it to the waiter. "Come on," said he.
"Shame," said the fair girl at the next table, smiling. "Such solemn cavaliers."
The wind outside struck at us. It seemed icy after the hot fog of the Café. "You go home," said Köster.
"There were several," I replied, getting in with him.
The car shot off. We combed all the streets around the café, wider and wider, but saw nothing. At last Köster stopped.
"Vanished," said he. "But that's nothing. We'll get him sooner or later now."
"Otto," said I, "we ought to drop it."
He looked at me. "Gottfried's dead," said I and marvelled myself at what I was saying. "It won't bring him to life again."
Köster still looked at me.
"Bob," he replied slowly, "I don't even know how many men I've killed. But I remember shooting down- a young Englishman. He had a stoppage and couldn't do a thing more. I was a few yards away from him in my machine and saw his terrified, baby face with the fear in his eyes quite distinctly—it was his first flight, so I learned after, and he was barely eighteen—and into that terrified, helpless, pretty baby face at point-blank range I pumped a burst with my machine-gun, so that his skull smashed like a hen's egg. I didn't know the lad and he hadn't done me any harm. It took me longer than usual to get over that, and to quiet my conscience with the bloody recipe 'war is war.' But if I don't murder the chap who murdered Gottfried—shot him down without cause like a dog—then, I tell you, that affair with the Englishman was an abominable crime. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said I.
"And now you go home. I must see it to an end. It's like a wall—I can't go on until it's away."
"I'm not going home, Otto. If that's the way of it, we're sticking together."
"Rubbish," said he impatiently. "I can't use you." He raised a hand as he saw me about to speak. "I'll take care. I'll get him alone, without the others, entirely alone. Don't worry."
He pushed me impatiently from the seat and immediately raced off.
I realised that nothing could stop him now. I realised too why he had not taken me. Because of Pat. Gottfried he would have taken.
I went to Alfons'. He was the only one I could talk to. I wanted his advice—if we could do anything. But Alfons was not there. A sleepy girl told me he had gone to a meeting an hour before. I sat at a table to wait.
The place was empty. Only a small electric globe was burning over the bar. The girl had sat down to sleep again. I thought of Otto and Gottfried, I looked out the window at the street, becoming lighter from the full moon now rising over the roofs; I thought of the grave with the black wooden cross and the steel helmet on top; and suddenly I found I was crying. I wiped the drops away.
After some time I heard swift, light footsteps in the house. The door on to the courtyard opened and Alfons entered. His face was shining with perspiration.
"It's me, Alfons," said I.
"Here, quick!"
I followed him into the room on the right behind the taproom. Alfons went to a cupboard and took out two old Army first-aid packets. "You might just bandage me," said he pulling off his trousers without a sound.
He had a gash on the thigh. "Looks like a running shot," said I.
"It is, too," growled Alfons. "Get busy, bandage away."
"Alfons," said I as I straightened up, "where's Otto?"
"How should I know where Otto is?^ he muttered, squeezing out the wound.
"Weren't you together?"
"No."
"You haven't seen him?"
"Not the faintest. Open up the other packet and lay it on top. It's only a scratch."
Muttering away he busied himself with his wound. "Alfons," said I, "we saw the—you know, about Gottfried—we saw him to-night and Otto's gone after him."
"What?" He was attention at once. "Where is he then? There's no sense, any more. He must clear out."
"He won't clear out."
Alfons threw aside the scissors. "Drive there. You know where he is? He should disappear. Tell him the business with Gottfried's settled. I knew before you. There you see it. Fired, but I hit his hand down. Then I fired. Where is Otto?"
"Somewhere around Mönkestrasse."
"Thank God for that. He left there long ago. But get Otto out of the way all the same."
I went to the telephone and rang up the taxi stand where Gustav usually hung out. He was there. "Gustav," said I, "can you come to the corner of Wiesenstrasse and Bellevueplatz? Quickly? I'm waiting there."
"Right. Be there in ten minutes."
I put up the receiver and went back to Alfons. He was putting on another pair of trousers.
"Didn't know you were on the lookout too," said he. His face was still damp. "Would have been better if you had sat in somewhere. For the sake of the alibi. Maybe they will be asking after you. You never know."
"What about yourself?" said I.
"Ach, what d'you think." He was talking quicker than usual. "Had him by himself. Waited for him in his room. Up in an attic. No neighbours. Besides, self-defence. He shot the moment he came in. Don't need an alibi. Could have a dozen, if I want."
He looked at me. He sat on the chair, his damp, broad face turned toward me, his sweaty hair, his big mouth drawn awry, and his eyes were almost unendurable, so much torment, suffering and love lay suddenly exposed and hopeless in them. "Now Gottfried will rest," said he softly, and hoarsely. "Had the feeling he didn't rest before."
I stood mutely in front of him.
"Go now," said he.
I walked out through the barroom. The girl was still sleeping, and breathing loudly. Outside the moon had risen high and it was very bright. I went to the Bellevueplatz. The windows of the houses gleamed in the moonlight like silver mirrors. The wind had dropped. It was perfectly still.
Gustav arrived a few minutes later. "What's up, Robert?"
"Our car was stolen this evening. I've just heard it's been seen around the Monkestrasse. Can we drive over?"
"Why, sure." Gustav became eager. "What isn't being pinched these days? Every day a few cars. But mostly they only drive round in them till the petrol's out and then leave them standing."
"Yes; it's, probably that way with ours."
Gustav told me he meant to get married soon. There was a little one on the way, so there was nothing else for it. We drove down the Mönkestrasse and then through the side streets.
"There she is!" called Gustav suddenly.
The car was standing in a dark, concealed side alley. I got out, took my key and switched on the ignition. "O.K., Gustav," said I. "Thanks very much for bringing me."
"Shouldn't we have a drink somewhere?" he asked.
"No, not to-night. To-morrow. I must get off at once."
I put my hand to my pocket to pay him the fare.
"Are you balmy?" he asked.
"Right, thanks, Gustav. Don't wait. Au revoir."
"What d'you say to looking around to see if we can't nab the boy that pinched it?"
"No, no, he'll be gone long since, sure." I was suddenly in a frenzy of impatience. "Au revoir, Gustav."
"Have you petrol?"
"Yes, enough. Looked at that already. Good night, then."
He drove off. I waited awhile, then I followed, reached the Mönkestrasse and drove along it in third. As I came back again Köster was at the corner.
"What is it?"
"Get in," said I quickly. "You don't need to hang around any more. I've just been to Alfons. He's—he's met him already."
"And?"
"Yes," said I.
Köster got in without a word. He did not take the wheel. He sat beside me, rather huddled, and I drove. "Shall we go to my place?" I asked.
He nodded. I accelerated and took the road by the canal. The water was one broad silver band. The warehouses on the opposite bank lay deep black in the shadow, but the streets were drifting pale blue light, over which the tyres slipped along as over invisible snow. The broad baroque spires of the cathedral towered up beyond the roofs of the houses. They gleamed green and silver against the receding, phosphorescent sky where the moon hung like a great flaming onion.
"I'm glad it's happened that way, Otto," said I.
"I'm not," replied he. "I should have got him myself."
Frau Zalewski's light was still burning. As I unlocked the door she came out of her sitting room. "There's a telegram for you," said she.
"A telegram?" I asked in surprise. I was still thinking of the night. Then I realised, and ran to my room. The telegram lay in the centre of the table, chalky in the harsh light. I ripped open the seal-stamp; my chest constricted; the letters swam, vanished, came again; I breathed with relief; everything stood still and I gave the telegram to Köster. "Thank God. I thought—"
It was only three words: ROBBY, COME SOON.
I took the sheet again. Relief vanished. Fear returned.
"What can be the matter, Otto? God, why couldn't she say more? There must be something the matter." .
Köster put the telegram on the table. "When did you hear from her last?"
"A week ago. No longer."
"Put a call through. If it's anything, we'll go at once. In the car. Have you a timetable?"
I booked a call to the sanatorium and fetched the timetable from Frau Zalewski's sitting room.
"The next good connection isn't till noon to-morrow," said he. "We'd best take the car and go as far as we can. Then we can always catch the next train. It will save a few hours certainly. What do you say?"
"Yes, in any case." I couldn't imagine how I should endure the idle hours in the train.
The telephone rang. Köster went into my room with the timetable.
The sanatorium answered. I asked for Pat. A minute later the matron told me it would be better if Pat did not speak.
"What's the matter?" I shouted.
"A slight hemorrhage a few days ago. And now some fever."
"Tell her I'm coming," I called. "With Köster and Rarl. We're leaving now. Do you understand?"
"With Köster and Rarl," repeated the voice.
"Yes. But tell her at once. We are leaving now."
"I'll let her know immediately."
I went back to my room. My legs were strangely light. Köster was sitting at the table writing out the trains.
"Pack your bag," said he. "I'll drive home and get mine. I'll be back here in half an hour."
I took the trunk from the cupboard. It was Lenz's with the coloured hotel labels. I packed quickly and settled with Frau Zalewski and the proprietor of the International. Then I sat at the window in my room to wait for Köster.
It was very still. I thought that to-morrow evening I should be with Pat, and suddenly a hot, wild expectancy seized me, before which all else—fear, anxiety, melancholy, despair—vanished. To-morrow evening I would be with her —that was an inconceivable happiness, something I had almost ceased to think possible again. So much had perished since then.
I took my bag and went down. Everything was suddenly near and warm, the staircase, the stale smell of the landing, the cold, glinting rubber-grey of the asphalt, over which Karl was just approaching.
"I've brought a few rugs," said Köster. "It will be cold. Wrap yourself well in."
"We take turns driving, eh?" I asked.
"Yes. But I'll drive to start. I had a sleep this afternoon."
Half an hour later we left the city behind us and the immense silence of the clear moonlit night received us. The road ran white ahead to the skyline. It was so bright we were able to drive without the searchlight. The sound of the engine was like a deep organ note; it did not disturb the stillness, only made it the more sensible.
"You ought to sleep a bit," said Köster.
I shook my head. "Can't, Otto."
"Then stretch out at least, so you'll be fresh early to-morrow. We have all Germany to cross yet."
"I rest like this quite well."
I remained seated beside Köster. The moon glided slowly across the sky. The fields gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Now and then villages flew past,, sometimes a town, asleep, empty, the gullies of the streets between the rows of houses filled with ghostly, immaterial moonlight that made the night an unreal film picture.
Toward morning it turned cold. The meadows were suddenly shimmering with dew, the trees stood out like molten steel against the greying sky; in the woods it began to blow and here and there from chimneys streamers of smoke arose. We changed over and I drove till ten. Then we had a hasty breakfast at. an inn by the roadside and I drove again till twelve. From then on Köster kept the wheel. It went quicker when he drove alone.
In the afternoon, as it was turning dark, we reached the mountains. We had snow chains and shovels with us and enquired how far we would be able to get.
"With chains you might try it," said the secretary of the Automobile Club. "There's very little snow this year. But how it may be the last few kilometres I can't say exactly. You may stick there possibly."
We had a big start on the train and decided to try and get right up. It was cold so there was no fear of fog. The car climbed the zigzags like a clock. Halfway up we put on the snow chains. The road was shovelled clear but at many places it was iced over and the car danced and skidded. Occasionally we had to get out and push. Twice we sank and had to shovel Karl out. At the last village we got them to give us a bucket of sand, for we were now very high and were anxious lest the curves on the descent ahead might be iced. It was now quite dark, the mountain walls towered steep and bare above us into the night, the pass narrowed, the engine roared in bottom gear, and curve after curve dropped downward. Suddenly the beam of the searchlight slid off the slope and plunged into nothingness, the mountains opened, and lying before us we saw below the network of the village lights.
The car thundered through between the bright shops of the main street. Pedestrians sprang aside; startled by the unusual sight, horses shied; a sleigh set off down a slope on its own; the car raced up the turns to the sanatorium and pulled up in front of the porch. I jumped out; as through a veil I saw curious faces, people, the office, the lift; then I ran down the white corridor, threw open the door, and saw Pat; as I had seen her a hundred times in dream and desire, she came toward me and I held her in my arms like life itself and more than life.
"Thank God," said I, when I had recovered myself. "I imagined you'd be in bed."
She shook her head on my shoulder. Then she straightened, took my face in her hands and looked at me.
"To think you are here," she murmured. "That you have corne!"
She kissed me, cautiously, solemnly, warily, like something one does not want to break. As I felt her lips I started to tremble. It had all gone so quickly, I did not quite realise it yet. I was not properly there yet; I was still full of the journey, the roar of the engine, and the road. I felt like someone coming out of the cold and the night into a warm room: he feels the warmth on his skin, sees it with his eyes, but is not yet warm.
"We drove pretty fast," said I.
She did not answer. She just looked at me in silence. Her solemn face had a piercing expression, her eyes were close in front of me, and it was as if she were seeking, trying to find again something very important. I felt disconcerted. I put my hands on her shoulders and dropped my eyes.
"Are you staying?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Tell me at once. Tell me if you are going away again, so that I may know at once."
I meant to answer that I didn't know yet, and that probably I should have to go again in a few days because I hadn't the money to stay. But I couldn't do it. I just could not while she looked at me like that.
"Yes," said I, "I'm staying. Until we go back together."
Her face did not change. But suddenly it grew bright, as if lighted from within.
"Ach," she murmured, "I couldn't have endured it."
I tried to read over her shoulder the temperature chart at the head of the bed. She noticed it, swiftly drew the sheet from its container, crumpled it and threw it under the bed. "That doesn't signify any more," said she.
I noted where the screwed-up paper lay and determined to pocket it afterwards when she wasn't looking.
"Were you sick?" I asked.
"A bit. But that's over now."
"What did the doctor say?"
She laughed. "Don't ask about the doctor now. Don't ask anything any more. You are here, that's enough."
She was suddenly altered. I don't know if it came from the fact that I had not seen her for so long, but she seemed to me different from before. Her movements were more graceful, her skin warmer, the way she came to me was different; she was no longer just a beautiful young girl that one must protect; something else had entered in, and whereas before I had often not known whether she loved me, now I was conscious of it, she concealed nothing any more, she was more vivacious and nearer to me than ever, more lively, nearer and more beautiful, more delighting, but in a strange way also more disturbing.
"Pat," said I. "I must go down quickly. Köster is below. We must see where we're going to put up."
"Köster? And where is Lenz?"
"Lenz . . ." said I. "Lenz has stayed at home."
She noticed nothing. "Can you venture down, afterwards?" I asked. "Or should we come up here?"
"I can venture anything. I can venture everything now. We'll go down, and then have something to drink. I'll watch, while you drink."
"Good. Then we'll wait below in the hall for you."
She went to the wardrobe to take out a dress. I profited by the occasion to put the crumpled temperature chart in my pocket.
"Right then, Pat; see you in a minute?"
"Robby." She followed me and put her arms round my neck. "I wanted to tell you so many things."
"I you too, Pat. But now we have plenty of time. We'll tell each other things all day long: To-morrow. It doesn't go somehow at the start."
She nodded. "Yes, we'll tell one another everything. Then we'll know all about each other as if we had never been separated."
"So we haven't been, anyway," said I. ,
She smiled. "Not I. I haven't so much strength. It was worse for me. I can't comfort myself with thoughts when I am alone. I'm alone, that's all I know. It is easier to be alone without love." She was smiling still. It was a glassy smile; she held on to it, but you could see through it.
"Pat," said I, "brave old lad."
"It's a long time since I heard that," said she, and her eyes were full of tears.
I went down to Köster. The bags were already unloaded. They had given us two rooms next each other in the annex. "Take a look at that," said I showing him the temperature chart. "It goes up and down."
We walked over the crunching snow up the steps. "Ask the doctor to-morrow," said Köster. "You can't tell anything from the temperature alone."
"I can tell enough," I replied and screwed it up and stuck it in my pocket again.
We washed. Then Köster came to my room. He looked as if he had just got up. "You must dress, Bob," said he.
"Yes." I waked out of my brown study and unpacked my bag.
We went back to the sanatorium. Karl was still standing outside. Köster had hung a rug over the radiator. "When do we go back, Otto?"
He stopped. "I think I'll go to-morrow night or next morning early. You stay here, though."
"How am I to do that, then?" I replied desperately. "My money will hold out only for ten days at the outside. And the sanatorium is paid for Pat only to the fifteenth. I must go back and earn. From the looks of it they won't be wanting any bad pianists here."
Köster bent over Karl's radiator and lifted the rug. "I'll get money for you," said he, straightening. "You can stay here and don't worry on that score."
"Otto," said I, "I know how much you have over from the sale. Not three hundred marks."
"I don't mean that. I'll get some. Don't you trouble about that. In eight days you'll have it here."
"Got a legacy?" I asked with dismal cheerfulness.
"Something of the sort. Leave it to me. You can't just go away again now."
Köster spread the rug again over Karl's radiator. He passed his hand lightly over the bonnet. Then we went into the hall and sat by the fire. "How late is it actually?" I asked.
Köster looked at his watch. "Half-past six."
"Extraordinary," said I. "I thought it was much later."
Pat came down the stairs. She was wearing her fur jacket and walked swiftly across the hall to greet Köster. I saw now for the first time how brown she was. Her skin was the colour of reddish bronze, and she looked almost like a young, very fair Red Indian, But her face had become thinner and her eyes shone too brightly.
"Are you feverish?" I asked.
"A bit," she replied quickly and evasively. "Everybody here is feverish at night. It's only because you have come. Aren't you tired?"
"What from?"
"Then should we go into the bar? You know, this is the first time up here I've had visitors."
"Is there a bar here?"
"Yes, a small one. Or at least a corner that looks like one. That's part of the treatment. Avoid everything that looks like a hospital. You don't get anything if it's not allowed."
The bar was full. Pat greeted several people. One Italian I liked. We sat at a table which had just been vacated.
"What will you have, then?" I asked.
"A cocktail with rum. The sort we always used to drink at 'The Bar.' Do you know the recipe?"
"That's simple," said I to the girl who was serving. "Half port, half Jamaica rum."
"Two," called Pat. "And one Special."
The girl brought us two Porto-Roncos and a bright red drink. "That's for me," said Pat. She pushed the rum toward us. "Salut!"
She put down her glass without having drunk, looked around, then swiftly reached for my glass and emptied it. "Ach," said she, "how good that is."
"What's this you ordered?" I asked trying the suspiciously bright red affair. It tasted of raspberry and lemon. There was not a drop of alcohol in it. , "Very good," said I.
Pat looked at me.
"For the thirst," I added.
She laughed. "Order one more Porto-Ronco. But for yourself. I don't get any."
I beckoned the girl. "One Porto-Ronco and one Special," said I. I saw that a good many Specials were being drunk at the tables.
"I might venture to-day, Robby, yes?" said Pat. "Just to-day? Like in old times. Yes, Köster?"
"The Special is quite good," I replied and drank the second glass.
"I hate it. Poor Robby, what stuff you will have to drink here."
"If we order fast enough, I'll come, into my own soon," said I.
Pat laughed. "Afterwards, with supper, I'm allowed to drink something. Red wine."
We ordered a few more Porto Roncos, then went in to the dining room. Pat looked lovely. Her face beamed. We sat ai one of the small, white, covered tables by the window. It was warm, and below lay the village with its lighted streets in the snow.
"Where's Helga Guttmann then?" I asked.
"Gone away," said Pat after a pause.
"Gone away? So soon?"
"Yes," said Pat and I realised what she meant.
The girl brought the dark red wine. Köster filled the glasses. The tables were now all occupied. Everywhere sat people chattering. I felt Pat's hand on mine.
"Darling," said she very softly and tenderly. "I couldn't stick it any longer."